


The end of the night

by FangedAngel



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 06:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11201925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/FangedAngel
Summary: {'I need to feel you. We're alive, and I need to feel you,' Will says, and he sounds as frantic as he feels, insatiable for sensation and drunk on it, driven mad with it, blood and pleasure and pain and Hannibal right there with him, making him feel, recreating him and redefining him.}Or: post-jump, the frenzied meeting of two survivors proving to each other that they're together, and alive.





	The end of the night

**Author's Note:**

> My dashboard informs me I have not posted fic since 2012, which came as a bit of a shock. I knew I'd barely been able to write anything non-academic, let alone finish it, but yikes. Five years, no wonder I was going mental. Anyway! This is just to say I've been working on a few different things lately and did not expect Hannigram to be what would break the spell, but after two rewatches of the entire show in as many weeks, it all just came pouring out, like it used to back when I could write, so yay? I did absolutely love writing these two and I'll never be able to even slightly pretend they don't rule my brain ever again. Or ever get 'Love Crime' out of my head.
> 
> Warnings for very violent sex, lots of mentions of wounds, incoherence, and madness. No actual people eating in this one. Not that kind, anyway.
> 
> A special thank you to I.E., who demanded this fic to be brought into existence and who yelled at me throughout the process ;)
> 
> (you can also find me on tumblr - ethicalmadness.)

He wakes up to saltwater and blood in his mouth, sand scratching his throat raw. He's blinded by the fury of the ocean but he can tell he's lethally close to the shore, waves crashing into him, pulling him under, rolling him until he doesn't know where the surface is. He can't move, can't breathe, and it takes forever for him to realise that there's an arm around him, holding on to him with devastating strength, dragging him to the surface, battling the force of the riptide.

He doesn't remember his own name, nor why he's drowning, but instinct makes him hold on to the body next to his, his hands clawing at skin. He gasps for breath in the crook of a shoulder as the waves push them into rocks that tear into his legs and make it even more impossible to stand. His heart's racing and he feels both weighed down and weightless, the current trying to claim him like he's nothing but sand himself, ready to be lost. He doesn't remember why he shouldn't let go, the ocean calling to him, wanting him, and he must say something out loud because there are suddenly two arms around him, pulling him up, forcing him to stand even though he can't remember how to use his limbs, his knees too weak to bear him. He can hear nothing but the frenzied ocean breathing, his eyes burning with the same salt that's setting in his open wounds, his lips as raw and torn as his cheek. He can see the next wave ready to engulf them even as its predecessor is still trying to lead them back into the open, the water black like the blood choking him in the shadow of the moon, unknowable, insurmountable, unavoidable. 'It's beautiful, it's so beautiful,' he thinks, ready to let himself fall under the next wave's spell, but just as it hits he's lifted and held up, the wave breaking against him, its spray lashing at his face, and as he tries to remember how to breathe, gulping down frantic lungfuls of air, adrenaline hits him like a thousand waves at once, setting his veins aflame and lending his body a strength he'd forgotten, a strength that allows him to grab the body holding him up and pulling him above water with him, wrapping himself around him as they adapt to the rhythm of the waves, getting closer and closer to shore until they can stand with relative ease. When they're almost away from the clutch of the waves, he lets go and tries to keep himself upright, but then a final retribution from the ocean sends him down on his knees, splitting them open on pebbles and giving him another mouthful of saltwater that he coughs up, his whole body heaving. His ears are starting to pick up on other sounds than those of the ocean, but it still takes him a long time to realise that he's laughing maniacally with a broken voice, unable to make himself stand, his hands scraped and holding on to the pebbles like he's trying to ground himself to something solid.

There are arms around him again, pulling him away from the waves, and he misses them, the unfathomable destructive beauty of them, and for a split second he almost fights to go back into their hold, but then he's lying down on sand, his legs still at the mercy of the waves, and he's still coughing up water, still laughing in between, clutching on to a waist and digging his nails into flesh and laughing, laughing, laughing.

He doesn't remember his name until Hannibal whispers it, his hand on Will's face, fingers pressed to the knife's entry point on his cheek like he's trying to establish if it's still bleeding and it burns in a way that not even the adrenaline can keep away, in a way that makes him finally realise he's still alive. He tangles his fingers in Hannibal's too-short hair and pulls until Hannibal viciously digs his hand into the wound in Will's shoulder and Will laughs even more, frenzied and desperate, watching Hannibal panting and revelling in it because it means he's alive too.

'We did it,' Will says, suddenly aware of how much he's shaking when he hears how broken his words are. 'We did it, we're free. We're free. Hannibal, we're...we're alive, we're immortal, we did it, we did it.'

He sounds hysterical even to his own ears, and he'd fear he's gone fully mad but another wave crashes into the shore and drenches them again and Hannibal covers Will's body with his own for a moment that doesn't stretch out long enough. His hands are all over Will now, and Will giggles when he realises Hannibal's checking for injuries because he's never felt less broken and more alive. 

There's blood on the foam cresting the waves, blood in the rivulets of water beneath them, and Will grabs handfuls of sand, trying to catch the stain of it. It must be their blood, mixed together, and he knows it shouldn't make him feel euphoric, he knows he should be terrified, but it's so beautiful, too beautiful, the blackness around them broken only by the silver of the moonlight reflected in Hannibal's eyes, the glint of it like a knife's blade shining in the dark, familiar and comforting. 

Will's still shaking and he presses his hands to Hannibal's cheeks, letting his thumbs rest over Hannibal's bloodied lips, digs into the cut there until Hannibal's mouth parts for him and Will pushes blood on his tongue, letting the pads of his thumbs linger there, like a promise, Hannibal's knife-sharp canines whispering predatory vows over his knuckles, one of Hannibal's hands pressed over the wound in Will's shoulder again, the other over his heart like he's trying to calm down its crazed rhythm. 

Will doesn't know how long they just look at each other, his thumbs still between Hannibal's lips, Hannibal sucking the blood off Will's skin. He knows he's fallen silent, his heartbeat deafening in his ears, his breathing erratic, his body out of control, the rush of adrenaline drowning out every coherent thought. He's alive, they're alive, and Will can feel every single point of contact between them, the way they're shaking against each other, pressed together, finally conjoined in body as well as in mind.

The waves keep gaining on them, each one breaking further than the last, like they're on the hunt, intent on dragging the two bodies that escaped their lure back, but Hannibal moves before they have a chance, despite the sound Will makes in protest, the way he twists his hands into Hannibal's ripped shirt as Hannibal carries him further ashore. Will notices how he limps, how blood is still pouring from the bullet wound over his hip, but Hannibal seems impervious to it, intent only on carrying Will's weight to safety, and neither of them even think to presume that Will could stand and walk on his own. He can't quite feel his legs still, and he almost starts laughing again, the foreign feeling of unadulterated joy unfolding within him, drowning out any sense of fear or panic, drowning out the horror at what they've done, the horror that Will knows will never come. He's forsaken his past, stripped himself of it in the jump, purified himself of it when he crashed into the ocean's embrace, and now there's nothing but this, Hannibal's hands on him as well as his blood, Will's on Hannibal.

All hint of light disappears for a moment, and Will doesn't notice they're at the mouth of a cave until Hannibal lies him down on unforgiving ground. Will pulls him down on top of him and wraps himself around him, his hands mapping skin, taking note of injuries, cataloguing scars. He needs the closeness more than breathing, his face in the crook of Hannibal's neck, his lips pressed to Hannibal's shoulder. There's nothing but the darkness of the cave and the sound of the ocean, and it feels like they've escaped space and time, like they're everywhere and nowhere all at once, like they've fallen and been reborn into a new world, all their own. Hannibal smells like blood and gunpowder and metal and wine and damnation and Will can't stop grinning, can't stop shaking. Pain is starting to tug at his consciousness, adrenaline fading as his body is starting to become self-aware again, but it just builds his sense of desperation, his need to be close, close, ever closer. He wonders if he can break the laws of physics in this new world of theirs and just bury himself under Hannibal's skin, where he belongs, just crawl into him and be unequivocally and unalterably his, sown into him in a way that would kill both of them if anyone would try to separate them. Hannibal whispers 'yes, yes, yes' and Will realises he's been saying it all out loud, no filter to prevent his thoughts from tumbling out, and this time he does laugh again at this new reminder of how free he is now, how utterly, ecstatically free.

He presses his wounded cheek to Hannibal's as his hands take advantage of each rip in his shirt they can find to tear it slowly apart and off him, greedy for as much bare skin as he can reveal. For a moment, they rub their faces against each other like they're jaguars finding each other in the dark, welcoming each other, belonging to each other. Will's hand finds the bullet entry point and he presses his palm to it, feels it burn under his skin, making Hannibal gasp. Will wants to feel more of Hannibal's weight bearing down on him and he keeps pushing down until Hannibal understands and shifts his weight from where his knees are draped around Will's waist. Will wants to feel him everywhere, wants to not be able to catch his breath because of him. He feels electric, like his body is finally reflecting who he is, like he's been comatose and unfeeling and now the slightest hint of sensation is increased tenfold, making him even hungrier to feel everything he can. 

He arches into Hannibal, his mouth not content with kissing over the pulse point under Hannibal's jaw and biting down until skin breaks under his teeth, blood on his own tongue now, and he remembers Hannibal's teeth in the Dragon's flesh and he bites harder and harder until Hannibal stops him by wrapping a hand around Will's throat until Will tilts his head back to look at him and Hannibal releases his grip and kisses him before Will has a chance to catch his breath, and it feels like jumping off the cliff, like death and rebirth, their blood in each other's mouths, lips splitting open again and teeth biting and tongues meeting and so much feeling that Will cries out, over and over again, his hands now tearing at skin, leaving red curved lines down the expanse of Hannibal's back, making him gasp again, which makes Will feel even more lightheaded in turn. He arches again and blood gushes out of his shoulder, staining down his shirt again, and Hannibal presses his mouth there next, his hands pulling at Will's hair.

'I need to take care of this,' Hannibal says, breathing in the scent of Will's blood, and it's still only a whisper. Will retraces the scratches he's left on Hannibal's back in reply until he finds the bullet wound again and lets the bluntness of his nail dig down until Hannibal grabs him by the throat again, looking like he's about three seconds from tearing him to pieces. Will rests his forehead against Hannibal's and breathes through the pressure, kissing from his temple to the corner of his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip while looking up at him through his lashes, pleading with his entire body in a way that is beyond shameless and that he would never have allowed himself before.

'I need to feel you. We're alive, and I need to feel you,' Will says, and he sounds as frantic as he feels, insatiable for sensation and drunk on it, driven mad with it, blood and pleasure and pain and Hannibal right there with him, making him feel, recreating him and redefining him. Will feels like he's made it out of a shipwreck, like Hannibal's body bearing down on him is the one thing that can prove and ensure his survival, like his own body can only prove its continued existence by being reminded of how much it's part of Hannibal's in whatever way possible. He says it, says it all with fragments of words and the desperation ruling his hands and his lips, the warmth of Hannibal's blood on his stomach, tangling with his scar. There's no reason to hide anymore, no reason to not say what he means, to not make demands for what he wants. They're gods now, gods of their own universe, and Hannibal is the ocean and Will wants to drown.

'Please,' he says, just for the pleasure of watching Hannibal's composure shatter. 'Please, Hannibal,' he says again, curling his tongue around his name, and Hannibal growls into his mouth, his body coiled like he's ready to attack, and Will laughs, holding on to him, kissing him with all the hunger he's feeling.

'Feed me,' he says, and Hannibal bites into his shoulder, right over where he's been stabbed, and Will is laughing, and crying, and shaking, and he knows his body's cold but he feels like he's burning. Hannibal rips Will's shirt off with much more practiced dexterity than Will had, and then he kisses him again, punishing, bruising, taking, owning, and Will doesn't want to ever breathe again if it means letting go. 'You're my air,' he says, 'you're my sustenance.'

Hannibal's gripping onto him so hard in reply that Will can feel him leaving bruises on his ribs, his eyes dark like moonlit blood, inescapable and intoxicating.

'Will,' he says, and it's a prayer. 'Will,' he says, and it's damnation. 'Will,' he says, thumb pressing into Will's carotid, and it's redemption. It's a baptism, Will's name etching itself into Will's skin, into his veins, breathing life into him, defining him in a way it never has before. He's been named. He's been claimed.

'Please,' he says again, his voice clear and strong and unwavering. He can't see anything other than Hannibal, and that is as it should be, because nothing else exists, nothing else but the way they're looking at each other like they could devour each other through sight alone, nothing but the way their bodies are pressed so close together they're indivisible.

Hannibal's hands tangle themselves into Will's hair again, pushing it away from his eyes, his face so close Will is breathing his breath, and then he moves one of his hands to Will's mouth, tracing his lips with his fingers before pressing two of them inside, allowing Will to curl his tongue and lips around them until he's satisfied, until Will is hungrier than ever, starving and delirious, anticipating triumph.

Will is tracing the edges of the brand on Hannibal's back mindlessly, his fingertips learning the still-raised edges of the scarred design that never got a chance to heal properly, and he wishes it were his own brand there, his own permanent mark, because he's the only one who can own Hannibal in return for how Hannibal owns him. He mouths at Hannibal's shoulder instead as Hannibal lets his wet fingers trail ever lower on Will's body, his eyes never leaving Will's face, and Will can feel the weight of his gaze and he bites down again, relishing the feeling of skin giving in to him, and he sucks bruises into it and hopes the whole area will be painted black and purple and red for weeks.

Hannibal brings his fingers to his own mouth, tilting Will's head back with the hand that's still in his hair and letting him watch as he sucks until Will's thrashing underneath him, his whole body aching and feverish, unable to stop himself from constant desperate motion as he futilely tries to roll his hips up underneath Hannibal's weight. In the end, he settles on crashing his mouth into Hannibal's and licking over his fingers as well until Hannibal moves his hand away and kisses Will while his fingers claim what's theirs as well, and at the first press of Hannibal inside him Will bucks so hard he almost throws Hannibal off him, and Hannibal laughs, pleased at how Will's control is fully eradicated, pleased at the wanton sounds leaving his mouth, sounds Will's never known himself capable of, echoing around the cave, louder than the ocean, louder than the entire world, and completely uncontained.

It's not enough, their shared spit, but it's exactly what Will wants, exactly what it should be. He burns with it, feels so alive he doesn't know whether to laugh or scream out his joy, Hannibal moving inside him like he knows every inch of Will's body, because he does, because it's always belonged to him, an extension of him, and Will's body knows this too, because it opens up to him in a way that shouldn't be possible, giving way to his fingers, welcoming them. Hannibal's other hand remains in Will's hair, caressing, his thumb occasionally brushing away Will's tears, pressing into the stab wound in his cheek, his eyes never moving away from his face, Will meeting his gaze even as he forgets how to breathe again when Hannibal's fingers find the way to make him feel a pleasure he's never known to be real. He's shaking so hard he thinks his bones will break, and Hannibal whispers soothing things at him that Will can't focus on, words in languages he'll never understand, spoken like gifts.

'Please,' Will says, a final plea, and Hannibal kisses him again, skilled and deadly, kisses him as he grips Will's hip with his wet fingers, kisses him as he parts Will's thighs with his knees, kisses him as Will wraps his legs around him and pulls him close, kisses him and bites down on his tongue as he presses inside and Will throws his head back and grabs at the sand and stone underneath his hands, the sounds leaving his throat almost unnatural, almost demonic, and Hannibal's grinning at him, so very pleased, demanding all that Will has to give and asking only that Will take him in return, and Will does, he does, his voice cracking on each moan, his hands finding their way to Hannibal's hips, clawing into skin and driving him deeper, and Will is burning, he's burning, he's bleeding and he's alive and immortal and free and he screams with it, screams in pleasure and joy until his voice gives and then he bites into Hannibal's shoulder again, blood on his lips again, and Hannibal pulls at his hair viciously and then contrasts the gesture with his other hand drawing gently along the contours of the scar on Will's stomach, the mark of the first penetration, pushing down on it like he's trying, impossibly, to feel the contour of himself inside Will through skin and muscle.

Will arches his back, pushing back into the snap of Hannibal's hips, and his body screams in agony at the movement but he doesn't care, can't even begin to care, drunk on each individual thread of pain, drunk on the feeling of Hannibal moving inside him, where he belongs. He'd not spent too much time imagining it, how it would feel to be filled like this, the terrifying intimacy of it, the way it makes him feel vulnerable and unconquerable at the same time, the way the pleasure of it burns and consumes, the way his body knows how to adjust to a man's claim on it, how to move, how to give in, how to take, and take, and take, craving more, begging for more. 

He's panting so hard he can't catch his breath, and Hannibal kisses him again, open-mouthed and lazy, like he has all the time in the world for it, like he's not driven by the same desperation that has taken over Will, but Will can feel him shaking, can feel the way he tangles Will's curls around his fingers to ground himself, can taste the frenzy on his tongue, the tang of blood and the salt and the need and the devastating victory. He's not being fucked by a man, but by a god, by an abyss, by the ocean's depths, and it's like falling in an endless loop, like an eternal unravelling, like an infinite becoming, and Will scratches at him again, makes him bleed even more again, bites at his lips and sucks on his tongue and gasps his name over and over again because he can't remember any other word, because no other word holds meaning.

Will can feel where his back is being torn open with each of Hannibal's thrusts pushing him into the unyielding and punishing texture of the ground, blood on sand, and blood on stone, and Will lets his fingers trail through it and paints it over Hannibal's cheekbones, over his lips, into his mouth, and Hannibal looks ravenous with a primitive, feral, lethal hunger, and Will thrills in seeing Hannibal's steely control shredding itself into tatters even as he feels like a sacrifice, like an offering on a blood-soaked altar, his body chasing its pleasure in the looming shadow of death, so aware of the life coursing through him. Hannibal's movements turns cruel the moment Will attempts to sneak a hand in the limited space between their bodies to touch himself, wrapping his hand around Will's wrist and slamming it into the ground, the sound of bone against stone echoing like a gunshot in Will's fevered awareness, pain shooting up his arm before it goes numb, and he's not aware he's saying 'more, more, more', his body beyond any control and reason, on the edge of falling, until Hannibal laughs, pulling Will's head back by his hair, exposing his throat and biting into it until it bleeds, and then relinquishing his hold on Will's hair while his other hand is coaxing dark bruises into the back of Will's thigh, holding him open.

'I'll give you everything, Will,' he says, and Will nods, because he knows, and then he screams, because Hannibal presses down into the stab wound under his shoulder with his fingers and it's too much, it's enough, it's everything, and Will is screaming and shaking, laughing and crying, their world collapsing around him in a blinding rush of heat and noise and agony and he digs his nails into the scars on Hannibal's wrists and lets himself be tethered, lets himself feel, lets himself bleed.


End file.
